Grounded
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Sherlock's impetuous nature lands him in hot water. Part of my Sherlolly Saga, fits into the timeline after Until Death and before Quiet Sunday. Parentlock. Cover image by elbafo - the photoshop queen!
1. Grounded - Chapter One

**Grounded**

 **by**

 **thedragonaunt**

 **Chapter One**

'Look, John! There!' Sherlock hissed in a harsh whisper.

John peered along the dark alleyway, straining his eyes to make anything out in the murky gloom. The alley was narrow, the buildings on either side tall and the thin sliver of sky directly overhead was thick with cloud, ruling out any possibility of illumination from that source.

'Where? I don't see anything,' John hissed back.

The Consulting Detective and his trusty sidekick had been standing motionless in this alley for the best part of half an hour, pressed up against the cold, damp wall that stank of mould and other, even less savoury biological substances, waiting…Waiting for what?

The recent spate of burglaries in this part of London had the police baffled – though that was nothing new, Sherlock had scoffed when DI Lestrade brought the case to him. All the break-ins had occurred while the occupants were away on holiday. The unfortunate victims returned from their travels to find their homes ransacked and their belongings pilfered. But the burglars were forensically savvy. Not a single trace of the intruder was left behind.

The police had investigated the 'holiday' connection, suspecting that someone in the leisure industry was tipping off the felon about empty premises. But they had found no common link between the various victims to support that theory.

As the number of incidents rose and the press had a field day at the expense of London's finest, Lestrade had no alternative but to ask for Sherlock's assistance.

'Leave it with me,' the Consulting Detective had stated with an enigmatic smile, having briefly reviewed the evidence, such as it was.

Lestrade hated that smile. That smile said, ' _I know what's going on here but I'm not sharing. I'm just going to solve this case and hand it to you on a plate and feel very smug._ ' But, in the absence of any other option, the D.I. thanked Sherlock and departed.

Three days later, John got the call to meet Sherlock at Bethnal Green tube station, on the East Bound platform of the Central Line.

As he stepped from the train and joined the flow of passengers moving towards the exit, John spotted his best friend sitting on a bench, near the end of the platform, nonchalantly reading a copy of the Metro. When John approached, Sherlock studiously ignored him so he sat down on the other end of the bench and waited for the platform to clear and the train to continue on its journey, at which point the detective folded the newspaper, tossed it onto the bench and rose to his feet.

'Coming?' he asked, casually.

John frowned and stood up, giving the hem of his jacket a sharp downward tug. It was going to be one of those days, he thought irritably, when Sherlock would execute some well-thought-out plan of action and expect him to figure out – presumably by sheer osmosis – what the hell was going on.

It had been a long and busy day at St Mary's A and E and John was really not in the mood for playing catch up.

'Where?' he asked, standing his ground.

'This way,' Sherlock tossed back over his shoulder, as he strode away.

'Nope!' John declared.

Sherlock pulled up short and, after a dramatic pause, swivelled on his heels to face John.

'We're going to catch a thief,' he exclaimed, grinning gleefully, hoping to instil in John the thrill of the chase.

The doctor took a few steps towards him.

'Raffles?' he asked.

Sherlock gave an exaggerated eye roll. His blogger's penchant for giving their cases lurid titles had always been a source of irritation to him but this particular choice – presumably based on the audacious nature of the crimes - was beyond the pale!

'He's a criminal, John, not an antihero. He robs people of their hard-earned goods and chattels…'

'Rich people,' John interjected.

Sherlock frowned, disapprovingly.

'There would be little point in robbing poor people, would there? As I was saying, he's _not_ some latter-day Robin Hood. And we are going to catch him – this very night! … _if you stop wasting time with irrelevant questions_ ,' he added, under his breath as he turned and stalked away.

Which is how they came to find themselves in this narrow alleyway between two former Victorian warehouses – now redeveloped into luxury apartments in this recently gentrified part of the East End of London – waiting for their quarry to show his – or her – face. Sherlock was adamant the suspect was male, based on some obscure theory pertaining to the thief's MO. John, however, was yet to be convinced.

'There, look!' Sherlock hissed again, stretching his arm out along the wall, indicating the penthouse floor of the building at their backs. John followed the trajectory of the detective's pointing finger, peering through the gloom…and caught a hint of movement.

'Good God!' he gasped and watched, in amazement, as a figure - all in black, so barely discernible against the dark brick wall - descending the sheer cliff face of the building without the aid of ropes or climbing equipment of any kind, with a knapsack on their back, presumably crammed full of booty.

The crime-busting duo waited patiently for the thief to complete the descent. This alley was a dead end so the felon would have to come past them in order to flee the scene of crime. And that is when they would nab him…or her.

But then, the unexpected happened!

As the figure drew level with the top of the wall that closed off the end of the alley, instead of continuing down to ground level, they traversed across the side of the building, stepped onto the end wall and…disappeared from sight.

'Damn!' Sherlock rasped and charged off down the alleyway, his long legs covering the ground in huge strides, oblivious to John's warning cries. Launching himself into the air, he grasped the top of the end wall with the tips of his fingers and scrambled up and over…

'Sherlock, no!' John shouted - to no avail as his impetuous friend disappeared from view, over the wall. Then he heard a staccato crack – like the muffled sound of a gunshot – followed by a sharp cry of pain or surprise - or even both - from the other side of the wall.

'Sherlock? Sherlock!' John called out in alarm, as he stuttered to a halt at the base of the wall which was just too high for him to negotiate. He was a good few inches shorter than Sherlock and nowhere near as fit as he would've liked. He stood by the wall, leaning in and straining his ears in the pitch black for any sounds of life.

Then he heard it – a low groan followed by a slow intake of breath through gritted teeth and then a gasp.

'Sherlock? Are you OK? What's happened?' John called, through the wall.

'I…I'm alright,' Sherlock grunted, sounding anything but.

'What's going on?' John demanded, his tone sharpened by the frustration of not being able to get to or even see his obviously stricken friend. 'What did I hear, just now? Have you been shot?'

'Don't be ridiculous; of course, I haven't been shot!' Sherlock growled, cantankerously. 'I just landed badly that's all. I'm a bit winded. I'll be fine in a minute but the damn burglar got away!'

'Oh, sod the burglar,' John retorted. 'Just stay put. I'll find a way to get to you…'

'Climb the wall,' Sherlock replied but John ignored that unhelpful suggestion. He already had his phone in his hand and was opening the tracker app that he had installed, several months ago, for just such an eventuality as this.

He clicked on 'Find Sherlock's Phone' and waited for a map to appear on the screen with a flashing red marker hovering over Sherlock's position and a trail of blue dots showing how to get there, through a maze of local lanes and alleyways.

'Just stay where you are!' John reiterated. 'I'm on my way.'

The ex-Army doctor jogged along, following the electronic trail and hoping against hope that Sherlock was being honest about his condition. The consulting idiot had an annoying penchant for downplaying his own injuries and health issues. It was only a couple of months since the two friends had fallen out over just such an issue and, at that point, John had vowed not to concern himself any more with Sherlock's well-being. But some vows were more easily made than fulfilled and, right now, John was extremely bothered about his friend's situation.

He came at last to a large pair of metal gates which gave access to the yard of a derelict warehouse. The big red warning sign on the gate read 'DANGER, KEEP OUT' but some helpful soul had removed the heavy chain and padlock that had formerly reinforced that message so John was able to gain entry to the yard without having to test his climbing skills on the chain link fence that bounded the property. He skirted around to the back of the building, where the tracker app told him Sherlock was still waiting – or, at least, his phone was.

'Sherlock?' he called out, pulling his Maglite from his pocket and directing its powerful beam across the derelict site…and spotted his friend sitting on the ground at the base of the boundary wall with one leg bent and the other stretched out in front of him. Sherlock held up an arm to shield his eyes from the torch light but showed no sign of getting up.

John couldn't help but notice that the ground level on this side of the wall was a good three feet lower than on the alley side so Sherlock's drop would have been further than he was expecting. This did not bode well for a safe landing.

He lowered the beam as he jogged over and squatted in front of Sherlock, who dropped his hand to rest on the knee of his outstretched leg, his face pale and almost ghostly in the diffuse torchlight.

'You OK?' John asked.

'I'll be fine, John. Just need to catch my breath…'

John frowned. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to get here via the circuitous route. More than enough time for a person to recover from a winding.

'Where does it hurt?' he asked, visually scanning Sherlock's body with the aid of the torch…and noting the odd position of his friend's right foot. 'Is it here?' he asked, reaching towards that extremity.

'Don't touch it!' Sherlock gasped, shooting out a hand to ward off John's approach.

'I wasn't about to,' John assured him, holding up both hands in a placatory gesture, but unable to contain a smug grin at having tricked Sherlock into revealing the site of the damage. An ankle injury was what he would have expected, in the circumstances.

'I'll call for an ambulance,' he said, reaching for his phone.

'I don't need an ambulance!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'It's not broken. Look, I can move it.' He raised his foot off the ground and rotated his ankle for John's benefit.

'Just because you can rotate the joint doesn't mean there's no fracture, only no dislocation…which is good,' John replied, leaning forward to get a closer look at Sherlock's ankle. 'But even in this light – and through your sock – I can see that joint is already rather swollen.'

'It's fine, John, really,' Sherlock insisted, stubbornly. 'I just feel a bit…light-headed, that's all,' he admitted, frowning.

John reached into the inside pocket of his waxed jacket and pulled out the small bottle of water that he always brought along on these jaunts. Unscrewing the top, he handed it to his friend. Sherlock accepted the bottle, gratefully, and took a couple of good swigs. The cold liquid did help and his head began to clear almost immediately. He took a couple more swigs and offered the bottle back.

'No, you keep that. Put it in your pocket,' John advised. 'And when you're ready we'll see about getting you on your feet…or foot, I should say, because I think weight-bearing on that one is going to be a bit of a non-starter.'

He wasn't wrong. Having been pulled to standing, Sherlock found that even the lightest pressure on that foot sent a burning pain shooting up the outside of his calf. He was forced to lean on John's shoulder and hobble across the uneven ground of the warehouse yard, out onto the street where John suggested the detective wait while he ran to the main road and hailed a cab.

'No need for that,' Sherlock replied, taking out his phone and using an app to order a cab to come to them. The nearest one was five minutes away. He pulled a sour face. He hated waiting but, in the current circumstances, he had no choice but to put up and shut up.

It was, in fact, only three…gruelling, frustrating…minutes before the cab turned into the backstreet and pulled up beside them.

'Mr Holmes?' the cabbie asked.

'Who else would it be?' Sherlock snapped, tersely.

'Yes, it is,' John interjected. 'Thank you for being so prompt.'

On the journey back to the Holmes' family residence in East Smithfield – where Sherlock insisted on going, rather than to the nearest A and E – John chatted amicably with the cab driver about who was most likely to win the F.A. Cup final, an all-London derby between Arsenal and Chelsea. The cabbie was a West Ham fan, so he didn't really care who won, but he had put a few quid on Arsenal. John had no allegiances either – in fact, he didn't really follow football at all – but it lightened the atmosphere and distracted him from Sherlock's glowering presence, hunched up at the opposite end of the cab seat.

When the cab arrived outside Firs Lodge, Sherlock insisted that John continue on home and gave him his account details to pay for the ride. John, in turn, insisted on seeing his friend to the front door, at least, and asked the cabbie to wait while he did so then hopped back into the cab and it drove away.

Sherlock put his key in the lock and pushed open the door…to find Molly standing in the hall, arms folded, wearing a face that could curdle milk. Sherlock beetled his brow, apprehensively.

'John texted you,' he said – a statement, not a question.

Molly nodded and Sherlock noted a slight tapping of her foot to go with the folding of the arms and the pursing of the lips. The Royal Flush of disapproval!

'It's just sprained,' he ventured. 'Rest, ice, elevation and anti-inflammatories. It'll be fine.'

'If you say so, Dr Holmes,' Molly replied, acerbically.

Sherlock offered a weak, hopeful smile but, truth be told, he knew it was a lost cause.

ooOoo


	2. Grounded - Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Sherlock sat on the sofa in the family sitting room, his lower leg resting on a cushion on top of the coffee table, gazing forlornly at his injured ankle. The swelling around the joint was even more obvious in the glow of the table lamp, now that his shoe and sock had been removed. And the throbbing pain was impossible to dismiss or ignore. How on earth could this have happened?

 _One moment, he was clambering over the wall; the next, he was falling and the ground was not there to catch him. In that split second of free fall, he was transported back to St Bart's roof top and another leap of faith. But, that time, he had a plan. This time, he had nothing…and he panicked. His arms and legs began flailing in a vain attempt to control his fall. And then he landed..._

 _As his ankle buckled, on contact with the ground, he heard a loud crack and felt the impact throughout his body. He fell to his knees and a wave of nausea washed over him, draining the blood from his cheeks and leaving behind a tingling numbness in his extremities as his head swam. He lowered his forehead to the ground, with an involuntary groan, and rolled onto his side, welcoming the coolness of the bare earth against his skin._

 _Then came the pain…_

Despite his insistence to Molly that it was 'just a sprain', he knew this was wishful thinking. Both he and John had heard that noise and now, studying the site of the injury – the instant swelling, the early signs of bruising – he was pretty sure this was something more serious. But he was hardly going to admit that!

'Here, put this on it,' Molly ordered, walking in from the kitchen and offering him an ice pack folded inside a tea towel. 'Wrap it around the joint and keep it there for ten minutes – no more than that. Too much icing is worse than none at all.'

Sherlock did as he was instructed, gingerly applying the ice pack to the affected area.

'And take these,' Molly added, tipping a gram of ibuprofen into his open palm and handing him a glass of milk. 'I'm guessing you haven't eaten anything recently so you need the milk to line your stomach.'

Her voice was clipped, her manner abrupt, entirely devoid of sympathy. Sherlock accepted the pills and the milk with a muttered 'thank you' before downing the lot and handing back the glass. Molly huffed, frowning at him, before taking the empty glass and stalking back to the kitchen.

'I don't know how you're going to get upstairs to bed,' she tossed over her shoulder. 'I certainly can't carry you!'

That, however, was the least of his worries at that particular moment. As the cold from the ice pack penetrated his swollen flesh, he felt an intense shard of pain slicing deep into the heart of his ankle joint and he snatched the ice pack away.

' _What the fu…?_ ' he hissed. Wasn't the application of ice supposed to ease the pain, not intensify it?

He waited a moment or two for the agony to subside then, cautiously, reapplied the ice pack but, seconds later, he snatched it away again. With a petulant growl, he tossed the offending ice pack and its tea-towel cover onto the floor and slumped back onto the cushions, scowling morosely.

ooOoo

Molly lay in bed, propped up on pillows with her tablet in hand, reading a research paper she'd been asked to review…reading the same paragraph for the third time! In reality, she was listening to Sherlock drag himself up the stairs to the top floor of the house. Despite his injury, he had insisted on carrying out his usual routine of checking on the children before retiring to bed.

Molly felt very much conflicted. On the one hand, she was angry – furious, in fact – with her husband for his reckless behaviour, leaping blindly over that wall, in the dark, in pursuit of the cat burglar with absolutely no regard for his own safety. But she was well aware that this level of recklessness was par for the course where Sherlock was concerned, deeply ingrained within him, part of his DNA. And this was the man she had been drawn to, the man she fell in love with, the man she had married. So, seriously, what on earth did she expect?

She listened as he returned down the stairs, one laborious step at a time, and made his way to the Nursery, using the walls and stair rail for support, to look in on Violet. Molly's expression softened as she pictured Sherlock gently stroking their children's heads and leaning down to drop a tender kiss on each brow. But, as she heard him limp into the bathroom and, eventually, the bedroom, she shuffled down under the duvet and applied her focus to the text in the tablet. She pointedly averted her gaze as Sherlock crossed the floor, climbed into bed and settled the lower half of his injured leg, gingerly, on the pillow that - ignoring her baser instincts - Molly had placed on the mattress exactly where his lower leg should rest.

Sherlock lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It was rare for him and Molly to go to sleep on a disagreement – practically unheard of – but, on every occasion this had previously occurred, it was invariably because he had done something impetuous and landed himself in hot water of one sort or another. There was definitely a pattern here, he mused.

Molly discarded her tablet and turned off the bedside light but hesitated before turning her back on Sherlock and settling down to sleep. She didn't want to end the day like this either but could she bring herself to let him off the hook so easily?

Accepting full responsibility for the reproachful aura that hovered over Molly, Sherlock considered the efficacy of an apology, even drew a preparatory breath. But glancing to his left across the frozen waste of their marital bed, and noting Molly's forbidding silhouette, he thought better of it, exhaled slowly through his nostrils and closed his eyes, resigning himself to a lonely night, exiled to his own side of the bed.

But, to his great relief – and immense gratitude – he felt the bed move as Molly rolled over and wrapped an arm around him, resting her head on his shoulder.

'What am I going to do with you?' she sighed.

He hoped that was a rhetorical question because he couldn't think of an appropriate answer. If negative consequences were an effective deterrent, he would have been cured of impetuosity years ago. The problem was, in the heat of the moment, he never considered the long-term consequences, only the immediate ones.

'Does it hurt?' she asked.

 _Like bloody hell,_ he thought.

'Not at all,' he replied.

'You are a terrible liar, Mr Holmes,' Molly chided, snuggling closer into his side, as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

'I am sorry,' he muttered, resting his cheek against the crown of her head.

'Don't be sorry, be safe,' Molly murmured in reply.

 _Easier said than done_ , he thought ruefully, tucking her head under his chin and folding his fingers around her hand where it rested on his chest. He closed his eyes, feeling both blessed and humbled by the warmth and tenderness of her unconditional love.

ooOoo

'That is not good,' Molly pronounced, frowning at Sherlock's swollen ankle. He couldn't argue with the logic. Overnight, the bruising had spread to his heel and begun to creep up his calf. He'd endured a broken night's sleep during which even the smallest movement had resulted in sharp pains shooting up his leg. Getting down the stairs had been a major undertaking, not helped at all by Freddie's well-meaning offers of assistance.

Now all three Hooper-Holmes children stared at him with baleful eyes across the breakfast table.

'You should go to de hopsical, Daddy,' Freddie advised.

'I don't think that's necessary,' Sherlock assured him. 'It's just a sprain. Soft tissue injury. It'll get better on its own.'

'No, Daddy! You don't know that. You need to get an x-ray,' William insisted, 'then you'll know for sure.'

'De nah!' Violet declared, pointing an imperious finger at her father. She wasn't sure why everyone was being stern with Daddy but she wasn't about to be left out, either.

'From the mouths of babes,' Molly declared. 'Anyway, fait accompli, I've already cleared it with Marie. She's happy to have the children for a few hours and take back the time during the week.' It was Saturday, so the nanny wouldn't normally be on duty but the arrangement between her and the Hooper-Holmeses had always been flexible. 'So, breakfast first, then a shower and whatnot, and we'll get a cab to the Royal London.'

Sherlock groaned. He really did not relish spending the best part of a day hanging around in A and E, waiting to be seen by the over-stretched NHS staff struggling to cope with increased demand and reduced resources… At times like these, it was handy to have a friend who just happened to be a trauma specialist!

'We'll go to St Mary's,' he replied, with an affirmative nod.

'We absolutely will not,' Molly replied, emphatically. 'There's no guarantee that John will be on duty today and, even if he is, you are right out of favours in that area, after the last time. And the Royal is closest.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but quickly closed it again. Molly's glare was unequivocal. She was taking no rebuttals. The Royal London it was.

ooOoo

As luck would have it, the A and E Department at the Royal London Hospital was not terribly busy that morning. Later in the day, when the population of East London traditionally engaged in the pursuit of Saturday sports and other leisure activities - with all the inherent risks of injury - it would be a different story. And, later still, after the pubs, restaurants and bars yielded their usual percentage of over-imbibers, different again. But at 11 am, when Molly pushed Sherlock into the waiting area in the wheelchair she insisted on using – _'You'll get seen quicker if you're in a wheelchair,' she lied_ – the Waiting Time was only two hours.

Directed to the Minor Injuries section of the waiting room, Sherlock resigned himself to a long and tedious wait so he was delighted when his phone vibrated in his pocket and the caller was Greg Lestrade.

'There's been another break-in,' the DI announced, without preamble.

'Yes, I know,' said Sherlock, 'in Bethnal Green.'

'What? How could you possibly know that?' the DI snorted. He would never get used to the Consulting Detective's unerring ability to know the unknowable.

'I was there,' Sherlock replied.

Lestrade was momentarily shocked into silence but soon found his voice and Sherlock had to hold the phone away from his ear to spare himself the full force of the DI's vitriol. But everyone sitting near-by glared and tutted, as they were treated to a share of the tirade.

Sherlock waited for the stream of angry expletives to die down then returned the phone to his ear and explained how he and John had been staking out the alley, waiting for the felon to put in an appearance, but were thwarted by the burglar's unexpected escape route.

'And, as usual, it never occurred to you to call for back up,' Greg Lestrade spat.

'I couldn't be sure the burglar would turn up at all,' Sherlock retorted.

'Don't even try to pretend you were concerned about my overtime bill,' Lestrade snorted, dismissively. 'You just wanted to be the hero again!'

Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear and glared at it as though it had personally offended him then stabbed his thumb on the cut-off button and stuffed the mobile back into his pocket.

And, just at that moment, he heard his name being called and Molly wheeled him into a Consulting Room to be triaged by a Nurse Practitioner.

'How did this happen?' the man asked, giving Sherlock's ankle a close visual inspection.

'I jumped over a wall and landed badly on the other side,' he replied, succinctly.

The Nurse raised an eyebrow but made no verbal judgement.

'Can you move your foot?' he asked.

'Yes, from side to side,' Sherlock supplied and demonstrated.

'Up and down?' the nurse asked.

'Not without extreme discomfort,' Sherlock replied.

'Hmm,' the nurse nodded, giving the impression that that particular piece of information was a significant diagnostic clue. 'OK, let's send you down to x-ray, see what's what,' he concluded, with a smile in Molly's direction.

The Radiology Department was a short distance away, via a broad, featureless corridor with lots of side corridors running off it, reminding Sherlock of a lab rat maze. Just as they arrived at Radiology, the previous patient came out of an x-ray room so Sherlock was taken straight in. As instructed, he climbed onto the treatment couch and kept very still while the radiographer took images of his ankle from above and from the side then Molly pushed him back to the Waiting Area.

'Would you like a coffee?' she asked, nodding in the direction of the drinks dispenser in the corner of the waiting room. Sherlock took one look at the machine and wrinkled his nose in disdain then sank into a morose silence while Molly browsed a magazine.

The wait to see the doctor was rather longer than expected and Sherlock, despite passing the time deducing his fellow patients-in-waiting, had well exceeded his boredom threshold and was beginning to feel quite agitated when, at last, his name was called and Molly wheeled him back into the Minor Injuries consulting room. The junior doctor, a slightly balding man in his mid-thirties, made a thorough examination of the injury, including some taps and prods at strategic points around the ankle bone, whilst assuring an apprehensive Sherlock that he would not go anywhere near the site of the actual injury. Then, with a sympathetic smile, he announced,

'Well, your ankle is broken, obviously.'

Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes, mostly to avoid Molly's 'I told you so' expression.

'We'll fit you with a walking boot,' the doctor went on. 'I'll send a nurse in to help you with that and give you a crash course in how to walk with crutches. You need to rest the ankle completely for the next couple of days, with elevation and no weight bearing. It's really important that you don't put any stress on the injury. It's stable now but still vulnerable so you wouldn't want to risk making it worse by doing too much too soon.'

 _Story of his life_ , thought Molly.

'I'll be referring you to the Fracture Clinic. They'll review your case next week and give you a call – Tuesday or Wednesday, probably – to discuss what further treatment might be necessary…'

'How long?' Sherlock interrupted, rudely. 'How long will I need to wear this 'walking boot' thing?'

'Six weeks, on average,' the doctor replied, ignoring the rudeness. 'It takes about that long for a bone to heal in a normal healthy adult. But the Fracture Clinic will advise you on that - they are the bone experts, after all.'

He smiled, sympathetically, at his patient then rose and took his leave, giving Molly a cheeky wink on his way out of the room, acknowledging that she would have her work cut out with this one for the next six weeks.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the front entrance of the A and E Department, wearing the black surgical 'walking boot' – an elaborate confection of felt and Velcro inside a rigid metal frame attached to a curved, plastic base – assisted by two aluminium crutches which he tried, in vain, to co-ordinate with his gait but kept getting out of sync and having to stop and start again.

'How bloody hard can this be?' he growled in frustration.

'Just take your time, Sherlock. Stop trying to run before you can walk,' Molly soothed, gently. 'Look, there's a cab!'

Molly raised her arm to hail the approaching taxi and stepped back from the kerb as it swung to a halt right next to them. She held open the door and waited patiently while Sherlock figured out how to get himself and his walking aids into the cab and seated on the back seat then she climbed in herself and gave the cabbie their home address.

 _Six weeks is going to be a very long time_ , she thought, grimly.

ooOoo


	3. Grounded - Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

William was up in his bedroom enjoying a spot of down time away from Freddie and Violet, whose favourite game at the moment seemed to involve a lot of high-pitched squealing. He sat on the edge of his bed, laptop open on the bedside cabinet, watching all the activity going on in his beehive. Just a couple of weeks ago, Daddy had fitted a webcam inside the hive to enable William to keep an eye on his bees without having to disturb them. But this also meant that he could watch them any time he liked from where ever he happened to be, whether at home or at school or...anywhere.

The sound of a taxi pulling up outside alerted William to his parents' return and he jumped up to look out of the window, just in time to see Mummy step out of the cab and hold the door for Daddy, who climbed out much more slowly wearing a big black boot and wielding a pair of aluminium crutches.

 _Poor Daddy_ , thought William, suddenly anxious and concerned.

He hurried out of his bedroom and down two flights of stairs, so was waiting in the front hall when Molly and Sherlock entered by the front door.

'Is it a sprain?' he asked, straight to the point, keeping a wary distance from the elaborate contraption on his father's leg.

'No, William, it's broken,' Sherlock admitted. 'Mummy was right, of course.'

'Does it hurt a lot?' he asked. Never having broken any bones himself, William had no first-hand experience for comparison. However, his basic knowledge of physiology told him that bones were very hard on the outside but very soft on the inside so breaking one must, logically, be very painful indeed.

Sherlock was preoccupied with removing his coat whilst juggling two crutches and trying to balance on one foot so Molly, picking up on William's heightened concern, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and gently explained that Daddy's ankle was really sore at the moment but would get better quite quickly. She went on to suggest that everyone must try not to touch it - accidentally or on purpose - until it was better.

William had no intention of touching the poorly ankle. He could well imagine what it might look like, hidden inside the ominous black boot. No, he would be keeping well away from Daddy's injury! But he feared Freddie and Violet might need many repeated reminders to do the same.

'How long do you have to wear that for?' he asked, side-eyeing the boot suspiciously.

'About six weeks, apparently,' Sherlock sighed. Having shaken both arms out of his coat and let it drop to the floor, he was now attempting - unsuccessfully - to pick up the garment in order to hang it on the one of the hooks behind the door but Molly was quick to assist.

'Why don't you go through to the sitting room, darling? I'll bring you a cup of tea,' she suggested.

'I don't need coddling, Molly,' Sherlock huffed. 'I'm not an invalid.'

He turned towards the staircase but Molly stood in his way.

'Where do you think you're going?' she asked.

'Upstairs?' he retorted, as if that wasn't obvious. 'I need to get out of this suit and into my pyjamas. This rolled up trouser leg is cutting off the blood supply to my entire lower leg. I'm sure you don't want me to get gangrene, do you?'

'No, dear, but remember what the nurse said?' Molly soothed, patiently, as though addressing a truculent child. 'Don't try to walk up the stairs in that boot - you will fall. You'll have to go up and down on your bum.'

Sherlock's disdainful glare made it quite clear what he thought of that idea. He went to move past her but he wasn't as agile as usual and Molly was not about to give way.

'William,' she said, with a determined smile, 'just pop upstairs and get Daddy's PJs and dressing gown, would you? You can get changed in the Utility Room,' she added, to Sherlock.

William scampered off upstairs as requested, relieved to have something constructive to do, and Molly crossed the hall to the kitchen door, through which the raucous sound of children at play was emanating.

Sherlock glanced up the staircase, briefly considered making a break for it but had to admit it was a bad idea. Instead, he gave a petulant snort and adjusted his grip on the crutches before following Molly into the kitchen.

The moment the kitchen door opened, Freddie and Violet stopped their game – some sort of wrestling match, apparently, which involved Freddie lying on his back on the floor and Violet sitting on top of him, bouncing up and down – and both looked expectantly towards the doorway.

'Mummy!' squealed Freddie, when Molly appeared. He rolled over, causing Violet to slip gracefully off his chest and land in a tidy heap on the floor. Freddie jumped to his feet and charged at his parents.

Molly crouched down with open arms to catch Freddie and prevent him crashing straight into Sherlock. But the four-year-old spotted his father limping across the hall and stuttered to a halt, staring open-mouthed. Violet, sitting on the kitchen floor, took one look at Daddy - one trouser leg rolled up to his knee, wearing an ugly, black bootie-thing, leaning on two metal poles – and burst into tears.

'It's alright, Violet, Daddy's fine,' Sherlock reassured his precious little girl but the toddler shook her head and wailed, raising her arms towards Marie and, when picked up, burying her face in the nanny's shoulder.

'What did de doctor do to you, Daddy?' Freddie exclaimed, recovering from his surprise and getting down on his hands and knees to take a closer look at the boot, prompting Molly to explain the whole situation all over again.

ooOoo

Molly's suggestion that Sherlock take up residence on the sofa in the sitting room, once he'd changed into something more comfortable, was entirely well-intentioned but Sherlock was having none of it. The Hooper-Holmes daily routine revolved around the kitchen so even with the dining room door left open, he argued, he would be totally isolated in there - left out, abandoned, ignored.

Molly had to smile. It didn't seem that long since Sherlock used to deliberately isolate himself – _Alone is what I have, alone protects me_. How things had changed - and so much for the better. It was agreed that he would sit on one kitchen chair, using another as a footstool, and remain fully involved with all the family goings on while Molly prepared a late lunch and the children played around them.

A couple of days after her first birthday, Violet had taken her first independent steps and now she could string several steps together, though she still relied heavily on other forms of locomotion, including crawling, bottom-shuffling and bear-walking. Freddie had appointed himself her Senior Walking Coach and delighted in walking backwards with his arms outstretched, encouraging his sister in her efforts to master this important new skill and major developmental milestone.

But little Violet needed little encouragement today. Once Sherlock was seated and the crutches were parked in the corner of the kitchen, Violet was less wary of Daddy's strange appearance. Cautiously, she tottered over to take a closer look. Placing one hand on his knee for support, she reached for the shank of the surgical boot and rubbed the felty surface with her free hand.

'Toft,' she observed.

'Yes, very soft,' Sherlock confirmed, nodding sagely.

She stroked it again, avoiding the strapping which was course to the touch, then leant forward and brushed the fabric with her cheek.

'Fuwee,' she declared.

'Yes, a bit furry,' Sherlock agreed.

Having touched, tasted and smelt the boot and reassured herself that it was not a threat, Violet held out her arms and demanded,

'Up!'

Sherlock lifted her into his lap and she snuggled into his chest, adopting her 'thinking' pose - thumb in mouth, rubbing the end of her nose with the tip of one finger.

In the midst of all this domesticity, Sherlock's text alert vibrated in his dressing gown pocket. He fished it out and peered at the caller ID. It was Greg Lestrade:

 _Come into the Yard. I need you to make a statement about last night._

Sherlock, still smarting from the 'hero' comment, thumbed in a terse reply:

 _If you want a statement from me you'll have to come and get it._

There was a short pause and then Lestrade replied:

 _I could arrest you for withholding evidence._

Sherlock huffed and typed back:

 _I've already told you everything that happened_.

 _Except how you knew where the burglar was going to strike next,_ came the reply.

 _I never reveal my sources,_ Sherlock retorted.

There was a slightly longer pause, during which Sherlock's expression morphed into a lop-sided grin as he envisaged the DI emitting a stream of profanities and possibly punching something. Then:

 _First thing Monday morning at 221B. You'd better be there._

Sherlock closed his phone and popped it back into his pocket.

 _That was do-able_ , he thought. He might not be able to run about but he could still call a cab and getting up and down stairs was just a matter of finding the right technique.

ooOoo

Molly strolled out of the en suite bathroom, wrapped in one towel and rubbing her damp hair with another, and found Sherlock sitting on the side of the bed in just his boxers, apparently taking a selfie of his injured foot.

'What _are_ you doing?' she exclaimed, trying hard not to giggle.

He swivelled his head to deliver a withering look, replying tartly,

'I would have thought that was obvious.'

'Sorry, wrong question,' she conceded. 'OK, _why_ are you photographing your foot?'

'I'm keeping a photographic record of the pathogenesis of the injury,' he explained, leaning forward again and adjusting the angle of his phone, trying to find the best perspective from which to capture the most detailed images. 'Today is Day Four,' he went on - to his phone not to Molly - completely engrossed in the task.

'The contusion has encircled the ankle joint and is predominantly blue in colour, due to the freshness of the blood seeping from the bone marrow through the fracture. Blood has pooled in the posterior region of the joint as a result of the subject adopting a supine position overnight.'

'The subject?' Molly snorted, seated at the dressing table, pausing from combing out her newly-washed hair.

'Problem?' Sherlock huffed, defensively.

'The 'subject' is _you_ , Sherlock! You're referring to yourself in the third person!' she chuckled.

'That's standard scientific protocol, surely?' he retorted, sitting upright again to fix her with a disparaging glar. 'Historically, many scientists have employed self-experimentation and when recording their findings have used the third person, in order to maintain objectivity. Daniel Zagury, David Pritchard, Pierre Curie, Dr Jekyll…

'Dr Jekyll!' Molly exclaimed. 'You do know he's a fictional character, don't you?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes to heaven.

'Of course, I know that,' he lied, 'but the story, in its historical context, obviously reflects the common practice of self-experimentation at the time. You're a scientist, you should know these things.'

Molly grinned at him, through the dressing table mirror.

'I know, darling. I'm just teasing,' she moued.

Sherlock frowned – he'd never really understood the concept of 'teasing' – and resumed photographing his foot.

Secretly, Molly was rather pleased he had turned his injury into a project. This had helped the weekend go a lot better than expected.

Sherlock had experimented with different ways of getting up and down stairs. Moving sideways, bracing his back against the wall and taking one step at a time leading with the damaged foot, seemed to work best for going downstairs. Facing forwards, holding the stair rail and taking one step at a time, leading with the good foot, was most effective for going upstairs.

He'd also spent quite a bit of time in the comunal garden in the centre of the crescent practicing his crutch technique, going round and round and round the perimeter path with Freddie and William jogging alongside, giving words of encouragement and reminding him not to weight-bear on his right foot.

But today would be the first real test. While she was at work and the boys were at school, Sherlock would be left pretty much to his own devices. She hoped he would find enough things to occupy his mind without over-doing things physically.

'So, what are your plans for the day?' she asked, casually.

'Work, as usual,' he replied.

'From home, of course?'

'No, from Baker Street.'

Molly wrinkled her brow then gave a mental shrug.

'Well, don't do anything I wouldn't do,' she cautioned.

'That's hardly an imposition,' he replied.

'I mean...Just take it easy,' she entreated him.

Reaching for his crutches, he got up and limped over to her, bending down to press his lips to hers.

'You worry too much, Molly Hooper,' he murmured.

 _Hmm…and you, not enough_ , she thought, as she watched him hobble off to the bathroom.

ooOoo


	4. Grounded - Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

The Hackney cab drew up outside Firs Lodge and the driver waited, with the engine and the meter running, for his fare to emerge from the grand Edwardian villa. Mr Holmes was a regular - an account customer and a very lucrative one at that. The cabbie was always pleased to get a call from him. People said, if you want to know what's going on in the world, ask a London cabbie. But this cabbie knew for a fact that no one had their finger on the pulse of this city better than the Consulting Detective. Wherever he asked to be taken, that's where the main action would be. The cabbie wondered, idly, where they would be going today.

Through the corner of his eye, he saw the solid wood front door open and the tall, thin gentleman in the long, black coat emerge… but there was something not quite right about his appearance today. As Sherlock reached the end of his front path, the cab driver realised what was amiss.

Jumping out of his cab, he ran around to the curb side and hastened to open the passenger door.

'Mr Holmes! What on earth happened to you?' he asked, genuinely concerned.

'Oh, just a minor inconvenience,' the detective mumbled, handing one of his crutches to the driver with every confidence that the man would take it, so that he could grasp the grab rail and haul himself into the cab and onto the back seat. Then he reached out and took the crutch back, without comment, holding both of them in the same hand so he could keep a steadying hand on the grab rail during the journey.

The cabbie stood by the open door, staring at his passenger, slightly perturbed.

'Are you sure you should be…?' he began but one look from the Consulting Detective convinced him of the folly of pursuing this line of questioning any further. He closed the passenger door and trotted back to the safety of the driver's seat.

'Where to today, Mr Holmes?' he asked.

'Baker Street,' came the terse reply.

'Right you are,' the cabbie replied and, putting the vehicle into gear, released the handbrake and pulled away from the curb. If Mr Holmes wanted to travel round London in a black cab dressed in his pyjamas, dressing gown and bedroom slippers – or, rather, slipper…since his right foot was otherwise attired - that was entirely his own business. After all, people went to the supermarket in their jim-jams these days, didn't they? And on the school run. That was London, for you. Nothing should surprise this veteran hack! It was just the fact that this particular gentleman was usually so immaculately dressed that made it stand out.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror, noted his passenger's glum expression, and concluded that this was not a good day to start up a conversation so drove in silence through the centre of the heaving metropolis to Baker Street.

When the cab arrived at its destination, the cabbie jumped out to assist his passenger and was not surprised to be handed both crutches to hold while Sherlock slithered out of the vehicle and stood, awkwardly, on one leg. He inserted his forearms into the crutches, one by one, in readiness to set off on the perilous journey across the pavement to 221B.

'Er, could you just sign the chit, Mr Holmes?' the cabbie asked, apologetically, holding out the piece of paper which proved that this journey had taken place and could be charged to Sherlock's account.

Letting one crutch dangle from his elbow, Sherlock took the cabbie's pen and scribbled on the chit then grasped the handle of the crutch again and turned away. He was exhausted already and he hadn't even begun to climb the seventeen steps to his 'office', yet! He frowned at the broad, Georgian-style front door, visualising the narrow vestibule and forbidding switch-back staircase concealed behind it. He needed some reinforcements before even attempting that feat of mountaineering. He altered his trajectory very slightly and headed, instead, towards the infinitely more alluring prospect of Speedy's Snack and Sandwich Bar. Coffee and an almond croissant was just what the doctor ordered – or would have ordered, if he knew what was best for him.

ooOoo

Sherlock was received in Speedy's, by Mr Chatterjee and his staff, with all the expressions of concern for his indisposition that they could muster for their upstairs neighbour and regular customer. He was shepherded into a booth right next to the service counter and installed with one chair to sit on and another on which to rest his leg. His crutches were parked in the corner, close to hand, and his order was immediately taken.

While he waited for his morning snack, Sherlock took out his phone and texted Lestrade, who was due to arrive at any moment.

 _In Speedy's_ was his succinct missive.

Then he leant back against the tiled wall and lost himself in thought, barely acknowledging the waiter who brought his coffee and croissant. He was halfway through consuming both when the café door swung open and the large frame of Greg Lestrade filled the aperture. Momentarily blotting out the light, the D.I. paused to scan the interior of the building, spotted his target and strode towards Sherlock's table, nodding to Mr Chatterjee as he passed the service counter.

'I can't take a formal statement here!' Lestrade snapped, eschewing even the basic formality of a greeting in his heightened state of annoyance at the Consulting Detective.

Sherlock turned his head and gifted his visitor with a condescending smirk then waved a nonchalant hand to indicate the seats on the opposite side of the table. Lestrade glared back at him, took in the half-eaten croissant and semi-consumed coffee, clenched his fists in frustration but then relented, with a pained sigh, and pulled out a chair to sit down. It was only then that he noticed Sherlock's elevated leg and the big black boot adorning it.

'What the hell…?' he exclaimed, pausing halfway between standing and sitting.

'I broke my ankle,' Sherlock replied, tartly, then took a long sip of coffee to make it clear that he was not about to offer any further explanation.

Lestrade's demeanour changed instantly from one of intense resentment to one of extreme amusement.

'What the fuck is that?' he chortled, grinning at the waiter who had just delivered his regular order of a flat white and a ring doughnut.

'Never mind,' Sherlock retorted. 'It just…happened. Anyway, I thought you wanted to ask about the case?'

'Yes, that is the primary purpose of this meeting but I'm not going to discuss it here,' Lestrade replied, unperturbed by Sherlock's abrupt manner. 'It can wait while we finish our drinks and then we'll go upstairs… You can get upstairs, can't you?' he asked, mischievously, whilst mentally calculating how he could snap an amusing image of the consulting dickhead to post on the dart board at New Scotland Yard. The old one could do with replacing as it was pretty much covered in holes, now.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to his coffee and croissant. It would have been nice if his 'friend' was genuinely concerned for his well-being but Lestrade had a reputation to uphold with his co-workers and Sherlock-baiting was a big part of that, so he would just grin and bear the 'banter', even though he did feel stung by it.

Fifteen minutes later, the two men stood at the bottom of the staircase to 221B and Lestrade asked,

'OK, how do we do this?'

' _We_ don't,' Sherlock replied, thrusting one crutch at the D.I. who looked at it for a moment then took it with a shrug.

'Take that upstairs,' Sherlock ordered. 'I can do this much better without interference.'

Lestrade did as he was told, a little disappointed as this would have been a perfect opportunity for a clandestine photo-shot. He mounted the stairs to the first-floor flat, glancing back from the middle landing to see if he could catch his friend in an unguarded moment. But he was met with a warning glare so he continued on up to the sitting room of what had been Sherlock's home but was now his work space.

Climbing these stairs was a lot more difficult than the ones at home, Sherlock was discovering. For a start, this Georgian staircase was much narrower than the Edwardian one in Firs Lodge and the treads were far shallower, so less accommodating for the broad sole of the surgical boot. He realised that he probably could have done to unburden himself of _both_ crutches in order to have two hands free to grab the stair rail but it was a bit late for that – and he wasn't prepared to admit his error by calling Lestrade back – so he struggled on, dragging himself up the stairs one step at time, pausing for breath at the midway point and then resuming his climb.

By the time he arrived in the sitting room, the D.I. was reclining in 'John's' chair, jingling his car keys, absentmindedly, and wearing a smug expression. Sherlock crossed the floor and flopped down into his leather and chrome fireside chair with a grunt of relief, propped his lone crutch against the fire surround and plaited his fingers together, in an attempt to look nonchalent.

'Right, how may I be of service?' he asked, with a defiant air.

'Well, you can start by telling me how you knew where the burglar was going to strike next,' Lestrade demanded. 'And 'I don't reveal my sources' won't wash. If you've been withholding vital information, you are guilty of Perverting the Course of Justice and Aiding and Abetting a felon to commit a crime. And, as such, you are guilty of Secondary Liability and, therefore, liable to the same penalty.'

Lestrade sat back, with a huff of satisfaction. He'd been stewing on this all weekend and it felt good to give vent to his frustration. Sherlock, however, just fixed him with a bland stare, saying nothing but thinking plenty.

'I didn't 'know', I deduced,' he said, eventually.

'How?' snapped Lestrade. 'You must have had something on which to base your 'deduction'. You didn't just pluck it out of thin air! I'm serious, Sherlock,' he went on, 'I put my neck on the line every time I involve you in a case and there are plenty who would love to take a swing at it with an axe. So, if you know something that's pertinent to this case, just tell me what it is so I can go about my business, since you obviously won't be in any position to pursue this case any further with that thing on your leg.'

Sherlock glared at the D.I. Yes, it was true that many people at Scotland Yard had it in for Lestrade and would be happy to see him disgraced again, as he had been after the Bruhl case and Sherlock's fake suicide. But a large part of that resentment was due to Lestrade excellent clear-up rate – and that was due, in no small part, to Sherlock's input. And Sherlock really didn't need to be reminded that his mobility was severely compromised at the moment.

The two men glowered at one another for several seconds and then Sherlock relaxed back in his chair and said,

'Follow the money.'

'What?' Lestrade snorted. 'Is that it? 'Follow the money'? What the hell does that mean?'

'Work it out for yourself,' Sherlock replied and then closed his eyes and steepled his hands under his chin, effectively dismissing the D.I.

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief. Dealing with the Consulting Detective was always a challenge but usually one worth accepting. When Sherlock was on the case, one could depend on a speedy resolution - even though his methods were far from conventional and often questionable. But surely the obnoxious git realised that, under the current circumstances, he needed to share his intelligence with those able to act on it?

'Look, Sherlock…' Lestrade began, in a more conciliatory tone, but Sherlock was having none of it. The D.I. had injured his pride at a time that he was feeling particularly vulnerable and he was in full-on defensive mode.

'Get out,' he said, coldly, not even bothering to open his eyes. 'And close the door behind you.'

ooOoo


	5. Grounded - Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Sherlock sat motionless in his chair, eyes closed, hands steepled, listening to Lestrade's angry feet stomping down the stairs and through the hallway, where he flung open the heavy front door and slammed it shut with a loud bang. The shockwave travelled up the stairs and into the sitting room unimpeded – since the DI had obviously ignored Sherlock's peevish last request - and rustled some of the loose papers scattered across the dining table.

Sherlock sighed, his brow wrinkling into a frown. Of course he knew he was behaving badly. He really should not be taking out his own frustrations on his friends, even those who seemed so amused by his indisposition. Mind Palace Molly was fixing him with that reproving look, reserved for just such occasions as this, which never failed to hit its mark. The disgruntled detective flapped his hand to banish the image from his head then pushed himself to his feet and, grabbing the nearest crutch, limped over to the door and created a shockwave of his own.

Flopping back into his chair, he leant forward and grabbed the side table next to 'John's chair', dragging it into the space in front of him, then lifted both his legs, crossed them at the ankles – with his injured leg uppermost – and rested them on the table. Then he rested his head on the back of the chair and stared, morosely, at the impassive ceiling as his arms flopped onto the armrests and his hands dangled, loosely, either side of the chair. Emitting a slow, desultory sigh, he mentally retraced his steps through his conversation with Greg Lestrade.

Yes, of course he knew who was committing these crimes. He'd worked that out just by checking for common factors shared by all the incidents. It was the most basic scientific principle, to look for commonality, but it was the one that everyone – everyone _else_ – seemed to find the most difficult to grasp. And there were several such features. But the most obvious was…the money. But that wasn't the one that had led him to that dark alley the other night. No, that was the second most obvious one.

Perhaps he should have been more forthcoming with this information but maybe Lestrade did need to be reminded how much more difficult it was to solve this sort of crime without Sherlock's input. And he was fairly sure there wouldn't be another 'incident' in the very near future.

The perpetrator, he believed, had been suitably shocked to find his escape route rumbled, even though it had still proven effective. Sherlock was confident that the petty criminal would lie low for a while – a few weeks, perhaps - to let the heat die down before resuming their little crime spree. This would give Lestrade and his team a chance to look again at the evidence - _all_ the evidence that fit _all_ the facts – and maybe, just for once, spot what was so blindingly obvious to Sherlock that it had jumped up and bit him on the nose.

So, no need to feel guilty for the sake of potential victims, since there wouldn't be any new ones for a while.

So why did he feel guilty?

' _Because you just reinforced Lestrade's – and the entire NSY team's – image of you as a petulant child in a man's body,'_ Mind Place Molly said, gently. _'You let yourself down, nobody else.'_

She was right, of course. She was always right, in or out of his Mind Palace.

Sherlock tilted his head and gazed around the empty sitting room. It had been a mistake to come here. He felt trapped by the seventeen steps. There was nothing he could do here that he couldn't have done just as easily at home – check his emails, solve some crimes by the application of sheer logic, surf the internet looking for interesting armchair cases. And there were lots of things he couldn't do here that he could do at home – play with Violet, chat with Marie, feel loved…

But he wasn't going to admit his error by going back home again, not just yet anyway.

Snatching up the remote from the table beside his chair, Sherlock pointed it accusingly at the TV and stabbed the 'On' button with his thumb. The television screen flickered into life and he immediately recognised the programme by the disembodied voice of the presenter and the images of a derelict farmhouse in the middle of nowhere - 'Homes Under the Hammer'.

'Oh, lord,' he groaned. Even if he were thinking of going into property development as a side-line, he would rather shoot himself in the head than sit through this mindless drivel…

' _It's not drivel, Sherlock, just because you don't like it_ ,' Mind Palace Molly reminded him _. 'And don't think about shooting yourself in the head, even as joke. Self-harm is not funny.'_ Oh, boy, his Jiminy Cricket was on a roll today.

' _And don't call me Jiminy Cricket…'_

Sherlock flapped his hand again, dismissively, and changed to a news channel.

Another terror attack on a major European city. Mycroft, at least, would be busy today.

The screen was filled with a talking head – some politician or other – defending the Government's record on prevention of radicalisation. Yes, countered the news presenter, but couldn't more be done?

 _Yes,_ thought Sherlock. _For a start, your lot could stop giving air time to people like that obnoxious Euro MP, Whatshisname, to peddle their narrow-minded, bigoted, Alt-Right bullshit under the guise of freedom of speech…_

Sherlock knew better than most how many terror plots were foiled and never saw the light of day or appeared in any news headline. His brother may be a pompous prick, at times, but he and his department worked tirelessly behind the scenes to keep ordinary people safe.

He switched channels again. _A quiz. Oh, how wonderful,_ he sneered inwardly. _Why did people fill their heads with so much useless information and then come on TV to show off how much useless crap they know…_

But then the next question caught his attention - _Name a chemical element named after a person._

'Ah, too easy!' Sherlock exclaimed, sitting himself upright in the chair and pulling his 'footrest' a bit closer so that his feet still rested comfortably on it.

'Salarium, Gadolinium, Americum, Curium, Berkelium, Einsteinium, Fermium, Mendelevium, Nobelium,' he rattled them, quickly, off his tongue while the question master was wittering on, asking the contestant about what he/she/it did for a living and how they spent their spare time – as if anyone was remotely interested…

' _Sherlock…'_

'Sorry, Molly. Laurencium, Rutherfordium, Seaborgium, Meitnerium, Roentgenium, Copernicium, Flerovium, Livermorium, Organesson,' he concluded, triumphantly, as the first contestant struggled to come up with one answer.

'Oh, and Gallium,' Sherlock added, 'named after Paul-Emile Lecoq Boisbaudran, who was a Frenchman or a _Gaul_.' He sat back, smiling smugly.

'Er…Nitrogen?' ventured the contestant, tentatively.

'What!' Sherlock shrieked, almost leaping to his feet but remembering his injury just in time, by way of the sharp pain in his lower leg, and settling for throwing back his head in the most extravagant eye-roll ever performed and sighing with deep disdain.

'No, I'm sorry,' the kindly question master replied, 'I'm afraid that's incorrect.'

Turning to the second contestant - _who had now had lots of time to think of an answer so should at least have a right one_ , Sherlock sneered silently – and put the same question to them.

'Einsteinium,' announced the second person, with confidence.

'Yes! Well done!' the manic quizmaster declared.

'Oh, for god's sake! Only the most obvious answer of all,' Sherlock snorted. 'Who are these morons?'

It was the third contestant's turn. They'd had the benefit of the longest time for deliberation. Sherlock was hoping for something spectacular.

'Oh, er, let me think…' they mumbled, nervously.

'Oh, get on with it!' Sherlock hissed at the telly.

'Erm, Curium?' they asked.

There was a dramatic pause, as (apparently) the entire audience held their breath, then the quiz master exclaimed, 'Correct!' and everyone burst into a round of spontaneous, ecstatic applause.

Sherlock stared, open-mouthed, at the TV screen then aimed the remote at the quiz master's head and made the sound of a hand gun as he switched the damn thing off. There was only so much stupid he could tolerate and he had exceeded his daily limit by a very long way.

Dropping the remote back onto his side table, he lay back in the chair and closed his eyes.

Six weeks of this? He was going to go mad…

ooOoo

By lunchtime, Sherlock had had more than enough of his own company. Even Mrs Hudson – who was useful as a tea maker and biscuit provider, even if she did rabbit on a bit – was conspicuous by her absence. Pride or no, he had to go home.

Having locked up his 'office', he stood at the top of the stairs and looked down, wondering how he was going to manage this descent carrying two crutches - which were a positive hindrance in this situation.

Sherlock leant over the banister and looked down into the stairwell. Perhaps if he dropped them through the gap between the two switchback halves of the staircase, he would be able to collect them at the bottom. He considered the possible consequences: they might break on impact; they might hit Mrs Hudson if she should happen to walk in just at the wrong time; they might bounce and ricochet off in an unpredictable direction making them hard to retrieve or they might break one of Mrs H's precious hallway ornaments.

Or they might just land safely and he could collect them when he got down there.

Sherlock decided to put his faith in the most positive outcome and, threading the shafts of the crutches between the banisters of the two halves of the staircase, he lowered them as far as he dared - whilst trying to avoid falling down the stairs himself - and let go. He watched, with bated breath, as the aluminium ( _not named after anyone at all_ ) crutches plummeted to the floor of the hallway, landed on their ferrules, bounced like Pogo sticks - in opposite directions – then toppled over and clattered to the ground, both still intact and not causing any damage to anything else. And within easy reach of the bottom of the stair – well, one of them was, at least.

Sherlock smiled with satisfaction, turned sideways on to the staircase and began to descend, carefully, one step at a time.

He was just past the halfway point when he heard the familiar sound of a key in the front door. The next moment, the inner door was pushed open and there was Mrs Hudson, her hands full of shopping bags. Of course! Monday was his landlady's grocery shopping day.

Immediately, her eye was drawn to the two foreign objects lying on the hall floor, beside the staircase.

'What the…?' she exclaimed. Then she looked up and saw Sherlock, frozen in mid step on the stairs. 'Sherlock, is that you? What are you…Oh!'

She had spotted the surgical boot and now she looked back at the objects on the floor and it all clicked into place.

'Oh, Sherlock! What have you done, you poor dear man?' she moued, her voice just oozing sympathy and maternal concern.

 _This is more like it_ , thought Sherlock, switching on his best 'wounded puppy' expression.

'Oh, Mrs Hudson, thank goodness you're home…' he exhaled, with just the right amount of stiff upper lip stoicism. Perhaps it hadn't been such a bad idea coming here, after all.

ooOoo


	6. Grounded - Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

Unfortunately, Mrs Hudson turned out to be rather disappointing. Yes, she shepherded him into her flat, oohing and ahhing solicitously, and installed him in her favourite armchair with his foot resting on her precious Moroccan pouffe, the munificence of which he did not fully appreciate. She brewed a perfect pot of English Breakfast tea, just the way he liked it, and served it with a plate of hobnob biscuits - his favourites. But his satisfaction at all this cossetting was, sadly, cut short when she announced that she was expecting company.

'I'm hosting this month's Marylebone Landladies' Afternoon Tea,' she explained, 'but you don't need to worry. I'm sure they won't mind you joining in. They are all rather star-struck by you, you know. And more than a bit envious of me, having such a well-known personality under my roof!' she purred, basking in reflected glory.

Sherlock could not get out of there fast enough. He knocked back his tea, filled his pockets with hobnobs for the journey home and hobbled out to the street, waving a crutch at the first cab that came along and slumping onto the back seat.

ooOoo

Violet was delighted to see him, of course. When Daddy entered the kitchen, the little girl was on her bottom in the middle of the floor, energetically hammering wooden pegs into a brightly coloured rack using a matching wooden mallet. Sherlock and Molly had always avoided buying gender-specific toys for their children, preferring to let them loose in the toy shop to choose for themselves from the full range of what was on offer. The 'Hammer Peg' was one of Violet's favourites and she could bash away at those pegs for ever, pausing only to turn the whole thing over - once all the pegs were well and truly hammered in - and start again from the other side.

But Daddy's untimely appearance in the middle of the afternoon was a welcome distraction.

'Da-da-da-da-da!' she chortled excitedly, abandoning the hammer and rolling onto all-fours to scamper across the floor in his direction. Purposefully avoiding the strange black boot – which was still not entirely to be trusted – Violet reached up to grab a fistful of Daddy's PJ trouser leg and pull herself up to standing, smiling in delight when Sherlock reached down to ruffle her hair, fondly.

'You're home early,' Marie observed, rather unnecessarily in Sherlock's opinion but he had learned to tolerate this tendency amongst ordinary people to invariably state the obvious. 'Nothing interesting out there today?' she added, moving across to the other side of the kitchen to switch on the kettle for tea.

'Nothing that requires my specific skill set,' Sherlock replied, propping one crutch against the kitchen door-frame so that he could prise Violet's grip from his leg and guide her by the hand to the nearest chair. Once seated, he was able to lift his daughter into his lap – and relax for the first time that day.

The chemist in him knew that the calming effect that Molly and the children had on him was no mystery. Being near them, seeing, touching, smelling or even just thinking about them triggered the production of serotonin, oxytocin, beta-endorphins and dopamine in his brain, which combined to reduce his stress levels, lower his heart rate and increase his general sense of well-being. His family were by far the most effective form of therapy he could wish for. They were simply his heart and soul, his raison d'être.

'I thought I'd be better employed sharing some quality time with Violet,' he added, his face crinkling into a smile as he looked into his daughter's adoring eyes.

'Well, I'm sure she won't object to that!', Marie chuckled, placing a mug of tea on the table within Sherlock's reach but well out of Violet's. 'Actually, I was just about to nip out to the shops for a few bits and pieces for supper tonight then go and pick up the boys from school. So, if it's OK, I'll leave her here with you. She's about due her afternoon nap so she might conk out any minute.'

'That's fine,' Sherlock replied. 'Maybe we'll both 'conk out'.' His ankle was making its presence felt, throbbing painfully, so he would kill two birds with one stone - take some ibuprofen and lie down to rest while the medication took effect, and get to cuddle Violet at the same time. 'What do you say, Violet?' he asked. 'Shall you and I have a little nap on the sofa together?'

'Wib?' Violet enquired, pointing in the general direction of the stairs.

'Oh, of course!' Marie replied. 'I'll get Wib from the nursery.' Violet couldn't possibly take a nap, even if it was with Daddy, without her favourite cuddly toy.

ooOoo

Sherlock was stretched out, dozing on the sofa in the sitting room of Firs Lodge, with Violet spread-eagled across his chest, snoozing soundly, when the noise of the front door opening broke into his dream and summoned him to consciousness. He lay still, eyes closed in the darkened room, listening to the familiar sounds of Freddie and Marie removing their outdoor clothes and moving into the kitchen. William, he knew, would have gone straight round to the back garden to tell his bees he was home and have a chat with them about his day.

Sherlock waited patiently, knowing what would happen next and was rewarded when he heard the door from the kitchen to the dining room open and then close, quietly, and the sound of a small person tip-toeing across the wooden floor into the sitting room. He opened his eyes just as Freddie hove into view beside the sofa.

'Shush,' Freddie whispered, holding a single finger to his lips to remind himself not to disturb his sleeping sister. 'Hello, Daddy. How id your leg today?'

'It's not too bad, thank you,' Sherlock whispered back, reaching out to pull Freddie into a hug. 'How was your day?'

Freddie wrapped his arms around his father's neck and rested his head on his chest, next to Violet's.

'It wad awwight, fantoo. I 'till mitt Morgan but I know he id happy at hid new school so I id happy for him.'

Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Freddie's head, hoping to assuage the pain of loss and separation his son was feeling for his absent friend. It seemed to work because Freddie raised his head, wearing a beaming smile, and kissed him back.

'I weally, weally lub you, Daddy,' he said.

'I really, really love you, too, Freddie,' Sherlock smiled.

'Weddie!' exclaimed Violet, instantly wide awake, pushing up on her hands for a better view of her favourite brother. This seemed to act as a signal for both children to begin squealing and giggling with delight and marked an abrupt end to the peace and tranquillity of the afternoon.

ooOoo

'I let you down today,' said Sherlock, his tone of voice, facial expression and body language testifying to his sincerity. The conversation with DI Lestrade had been replaying in his head, on and off all day. This confession was an attempt to gain absolution - from the only person whose opinion he truly valued.

'Let _me_ down?' queried Molly, looking up from her book and then closing it to give her husband - who was sitting on the side of the bed removing the surgical boot, prior to retiring for the night - her full attention.

'Yes, I'm afraid so,' Sherlock sighed, placing the boot by the side of the bed and folding his hands in his lap. 'In my defence, I was provoked but I should _not_ have risen to the bait. So, I'm sorry. I'll try to do better next time.'

'Is this about Greg?' she asked.

'Yes,' Sherlock exclaimed in surprise then wrinkled his brow suspiciously. 'Is that a lucky guess or has someone been telling tales?'

His sense of guilt and self-loathing was rapidly morphing into outrage and disgust that Lestrade would actually stoop to involving Molly in their petty squabble. It reminded him of the snitches at school who were always complaining to Matron about every minor misdemeanour…

Molly could see the direction his thoughts were taking and was quick to intervene.

'No, not telling tales,' she assured him, 'but when he came in today to view a body, I could tell he was rather rattled and he did happen to mention that he was getting a lot of stick over the cat burglar case. Apparently, the gutter press are really going to town about how inept the Met are at solving basic bread and butter cases, and his bosses are pushing for a quick resolution in order to reassure the public. I just put two and two together and, apparently, got four…'

'Well, the Press have a point,' Sherlock growled, as he lay back on his pillows and drew the duvet up to his chest, folding his arms sulkily on top of it.

Molly abandoned her book to the bedside table and scooted across to cuddle into his side.

'Did you two have a bit of a domestic?' she asked, in a slightly mocking tone.

Sherlock scowled, morosely, but then gave a shrug and came clean about what had transpired at 221B that morning.

'I know what you're going to say,' he concluded, 'because you've already said it…in my head.'

'So why are you telling me?' she asked, knowing full well the answer to that question. They both knew each other far too well for it to be otherwise.

'I think a bit of Freddie has rubbed off on me,' he replied, with a wry smile. 'Unfortunately, I seem to have been infected with an overriding compunction to confess my sins.'

Molly patted him, sympathetically, on the shoulder.

'Confession is good for the soul, I believe.'

'I don't have a soul…or, at least, I didn't used to. What have you done to me, woman?'

'Oh, it's my fault, now! I thought Freddie was the bad influence?'

'He's your child, with your genes.'

'And yours too, matey!' Molly giggled. 'And by the way, since we're on the subject…'

'Which subject? Our genes?'

'No. _Freddie_ …'

'Oh, thank god for that. For a terrible moment, I thought you might be demanding your conjugal rights and I was about to remind you that I'm somewhat compromised at the present time…'

Molly propped herself up on her elbow and peered at him, quizzically.

'What _are_ you talking about?' she asked.

Sherlock gave her one of his 'Isn't it obvious?' looks and pointed to his injured ankle.

'I'm kind of 'on the bench' when it comes to physical exertion, in case you hadn't noticed,' he retorted.

'Oh, really?' Molly snorted. 'Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat,' she added, with a mischievous grin, and was rewarded by the subtle blend of alarm and anticipation reflected in his eyes.

'Oh, stand down, soldier,' she exclaimed, giving him a playful slap on the arm. 'For what it's worth, I actually agree with you. It would not be wise to take unnecessary risks at this stage in the healing process. All I was about to say was, as you're on Sick Leave, perhaps you could take Freddie to his dance class tomorrow?'

Sherlock took a moment to reconcile the conflicting emotions of disappointment and relief that Molly's clarification had inspired, then replied,

'Yes, OK, why not?' Freddie had only been attending dance lessons for a few weeks and Sherlock had not had the opportunity to take him there yet. 'I'd quite like to see what they get up to at that dance school.'

'You're not allowed to watch,' said Molly.

'No?'

'No. You have to sit in the waiting room with the other parents.'

Sherlock was disappointed and more than a little aghast.

'So, better take something to read…or you might actually have to talk to people!' _Oh, to be a fly on the wall in that waiting room!_

Sherlock groaned and covered his face with his hands while Molly giggled uncontrollably.

ooOoo


	7. Grounded - Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

Tuesday in the Hooper-Holmes household was bed-changing day. This hadn't always been the case but, since Marie's role had morphed into nanny-cum-housekeeper, she had made this a part of her weekly routine. Marie was a very organised operative.

Starting at the top of the house, she stripped all the linen from the beds and removed the used towels, flannels and bath mats from the bath rooms, tossing them over the banister, to land on the floor at the bottom of the stair well, in the front hall .

Having removed the dirty linen, she then turned the mattresses one at a time and remade the beds, hung clean towels on the heated towel rails and placed fresh bath mats on the bathroom floors.

Then she came down the stairs, scooped up all the dirty linen and carried it into the Utility Room, where she added to the pile by changing the towels and shower mat in the downstairs shower and loo. All that remained was to sort the huge pile of mixed laundry into individual loads – by colour and washing temperature – and start working her way through them, using the industrial sized top-loading washing machine that Molly had chosen, wisely, to install in the newly refurbished family home.

Marie loved Tuesdays. It was the high-light of her week. But not today. Because today there was something weighing heavily on her shoulders, something she would have to confront sooner rather than later.

ooOoo

Normally, Violet would be on hand to help out, in her own special way, with the weekly bed-changing but today she had a much more important commitment - making Daddy smile.

Bed-changing Day was usually a 'Daddy go' day but not this time. To Violet's utter delight, it turned out to be a 'Daddy stay' day. Only one thing marred her unbridled joy and that was Daddy's 'sad-face'. Violet could not help but notice that, ever since the 'big black boot' arrived, Daddy had not been his usually smiley self. And, today especially, even though his mouth was smiley his eyes were not. Those crinkles at the corners were just not there, neither were the creases in his forehead. And when he looked at his 'fat foot', which was lots of funny colours - like the sky just before a big 'noisy rain' - his mouth turned right down and his nose wrinkled up.

Violet was not going to stand by and do nothing when Daddy so obviously needed her help. She had made it her mission to cheer Daddy up. She was the World's First Therapy Baby. She invented the job.

She began her task with a post-breakfast game of 'Boh!' This involved crawling around the side of the sofa, pulling herself up by the arm rest and then popping her head over the top and shouting 'Boh!' at the top of her voice. When Daddy jumped and gasped and held his hand to his chest, Violet laughed loudly then ducked back down below the arm rest, waited an appropriate length of time - so that Daddy forgot she was there - then popped up again with another cry of 'Boh!', which resulted in Daddy jumping, gasping and holding his chest all over again.

This game continued, with minor variations – such as when Violet crawled behind the sofa to the other end and popped up there instead, foxing Daddy even more with her clever subterfuge – for several minutes and, she was pleased to note, never once did Daddy guess what was going to happen next.

She then decided that perhaps a song would bring back Daddy's 'happy face' and she chose one of her personal favourites because it stood to reason that if it was a favourite of hers it would be a favourite of his too. She sat on the rug in front of Daddy and began to rock from side to side, chanting,

'Dih-doh, dih-doh,' over and over, in time to her movements.

Daddy, she was pleased to see, soon caught on and began to sing.

'Hickory, dickory, dock…'

Violet smiled broadly and began to enact the song's narrative.

'The mouse ran up the clock…'

She stretched her arms up, above her head.

'The clock stuck 'One'…'

Violet clapped and Daddy paused for dramatic effect

'…The mouse was gone…'

Daddy paused again and Violet quickly hid her hands behind her back,

'…Hickory, dickory, dock…Tick-Tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.'

Daddy repeated the refrain while Violet reverted to the gentle rocking, as at the beginning of the song, smiling dreamily.

The song had clearly done the trick. Daddy was smiling with his whole face, now. Mission accomplished!

ooOoo

Slumped on the sofa in the sitting room, with the right leg of his PJs rolled up to the knee, Sherlock's brow wrinkled as he concentrated on comparing the relative size of his two bare feet. It didn't take a deductive genius to see that the right one was considerably larger than the left, swollen by a good ten percent of its normal mass, and that the bruising had spread from the ankle to the tops of his toes, creating a mottled effect and forming a wavy dark blue border along the junction between his foot and his toes. It was Day Five of Project Broken Ankle and, as well as the visual manifestations, the injury was making its presence felt via a throbbing pain that could be felt throughout his lower limb from the knee down.

His attention was diverted, momentarily, by a soft snuffling sound. He glanced to his right and his gaze softened as it settled on the sleeping face of his daughter, enjoying a mid-morning snooze, stretched out on the sofa beside him.

Violet was a stickler for routine. Her days were neatly divided into periods of intense activity, interspersed by a short restorative sleep. Then she would be up and at it again, until the next nap claimed her.

As she pursed her Cupid's Bow lips into a moue, Sherlock smiled fondly, wondering what dreams had caused his child to snuffle and pout so expressively. Whatever it was, it had clearly resolved itself because now she wore a beatific half-smile and breathed evenly again. Oh, that all her problems would be so easily resolved, he thought - this precious bundle who, along with her two siblings, was a physical manifestation of the love he shared with Molly.

In the not so distant past, given this scenario of persistent pain and prolonged inactivity, he would have been reaching for the Class A stimulants. But who needed such things when he was gifted the option of spending the morning entertaining and being entertained by his delightful daughter?

His mobile vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out to see a number he did not recognise. A client, perhaps? He pressed the answer button.

'Hello?'

'Mr Holmes?' said a voice, embracing that modern phenomenon - distinctly jarring to Sherlock's Grammar Nazi sensibilities – a Multicultural London English accent. 'Mr Sherlock Holmes?'

'Speaking,' Sherlock replied. _Who else would be answering my phone?_ he thought.

'Oh, it's the London Hospital Virtual Fracture Clinic here, calling about your ankle?'

 _Are you asking me or are you telling me?_ thought Sherlock, further irritated by the caller's application of the rising interrogative.

'Yes?' he replied, deploying it himself in a defiant act of petulant protest which, sadly, was completely lost on the recipient.

'Oh-kay, well, your case has been reviewed by an Orthopaedic Consultant – that's a bone specialist - and a Fracture Care Extended Scope Physiotherapist – that's me, by the way' (annoying giggle) 'and I can confirm that you have sustained a fracture to your fibula – that's the outside ankle bone. This is classified as a stable 'Weber A' type fracture?'

'Is it?' Sherlock replied, with heavy sarcasm.

'Yes, Mr Holmes, it is?' the caller continued. 'I can email you a picture, if you'd like me to, to help you understand just where the injury is?'

'No!... No, thank you,' Sherlock exclaimed. 'I think I can figure that out for myself.'

'Oh, good?' the physiotherapist replied. 'This type of fracture normally takes around six weeks to unite – that means 'to heal' – although pain and swelling may continue for three to six months?'

'Oh, marvellous! That's just what I wanted to hear,' Sherlock sighed.

'So, you may walk on the foot, as comfort allows, although you will find it easier to walk with crutches in the early stages?' she continued, oblivious to his tone. 'The swelling is often worse at the end of the day, so elevating the foot will help with that?'

'No shit,' Sherlock murmured.

'Sorry?' she asked.

'Oh…er… No. Sit!' Sherlock hastily revised.

But, if she had heard him, the physio chose to let the expletive pass.

'Yes, sitting with your foot elevated is a good choice,' she confirmed then continued her spiel.

'The boot you've been given is for your comfort only and not needed to aid the fracture to heal? That will take care of itself. You can take painkillers as required but please do not exceed the recommended dose.'

'I'll try not to do that,' Sherlock replied, though right now that was a very tempting prospect.

'I'm emailing you an exercise plan to aid in your recovery. Please follow it closely?' continued the caller. 'If you have any concerns or questions, please phone the Fracture Care Team for advice?'

'I most certainly will… _not_ ,' Sherlock added the addendum, internally.

'We don't routinely follow up patients with this type of fracture. However, if after six weeks you are still experiencing significant pain and swelling or struggling to wean out of the boot, please don't hesitate to contact us for further consultation?'

Pause.

'But if you're experiencing pain or symptoms other than at the site of the injury and surrounding area, please get in touch by phone or email?'

Another pause.

'Is that oh-kay, Mr Holmes?'

'Yes! Yes, perfectly _oh-kay_ ,' Sherlock replied, tetchily, willing this conversation to end soon.

'Right, well, I'm emailing a Management and Rehabilitation Plan to you right now, Mr Holmes? If you don't see it your Inbox, please check your Spam?'

'I will, indeed!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'Thank you. You've been most helpful!'

'No probs, Mr Holmes? 'Bye?'

Sherlock closed the call and leaned back on the sofa cushions, closing his eyes and groaning, inwardly. He would look at the exercise plan in a moment but right now he just needed to fumigate his brain.

ooOoo


	8. Grounded - Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

At last, it was Tuesday! Freddie was so excited, he could barely keep still. All day long at school, his feet had been jiggling and his bottom wriggling – so much so that Miss Trimble had asked him several times if he needed to go to the loo – and on the bus going home, his head had joined in and was bobbing away in time to the music playing in his mind.

Mrs Mary, the lady who played piano for the lessons at Freddie's dance school, had a knack for selecting just the right piece of music for all the little exercises and dances they did in Freddie's class which – to distinguish it from the other, more advanced classes – was known as 'the Cygnets'. And right now the tune that was playing in Freddie's head, causing his whole body to wiggle and twitch, was the polka from The Nutcracker Suite.

Freddie remembered the tune from two Christmases ago, when Mummy and Daddy had taken him and William to see The Nutcracker at a huge theatre called ' _d_ _e Collie-Sea'um_ '. He had been awe-struck from the moment he set foot inside the auditorium and had jumped to his feet when the music started, as the orchestra played the bit called 'de _Oberchore_ '. He had ended up sitting on Daddy's knee because, firstly, it gave him a better view of the dancers on the stage and, secondly, it meant Daddy could hold onto him and stop him from leaping up and joining in.

That was Freddie's first dance experience and it had made a huge impression. Looking back, he knew it was on that very day that he decided he wanted to be just like the children on the stage. From that day onwards, dancing was his life.

So, when Mummy asked if he would like to take dancing lessons, he could hardly believe his luck! Could it be possible that there were actual places where people went to learn how to dance? He had thrown his arms around her and hugged her so tight. Of course, he would like to take dancing lessons. He would LOVE to!

As the bus approached their stop, Freddie jumped to his feet and would have rushed to the exit door, had Nanny Marie not been holding his hand very firmly. But once off the bus, he jogged along the pavement, willing Marie and William to walk just a little faster. Unfortunately, William was going on about something called the ' _Cah-Sea-Knee Mission_ ', which involved an awful lot of big words that Freddie had never even heard before, let alone understood, but Marie seemed to be really interested so she was strolling along as though they had all the time in the world.

At long last, they arrived at Firs Lodge, and William went off round to the back garden to talk to his bees – presumably they would be utterly fascinated by the Cah-Sea-Knee Mission, too – and Marie opened the front door to let her and Freddie in. Freddie kicked of his school shoes and was straight up the stairs, scrambling on all fours like a rabbit, up to his bedroom to change into his dance uniform.

Marie had laid it out for him after she finished making the beds so that he could get changed on his own without any help. He was pretty good at putting things on now, but he still got a bit confused about the order they went on in so, by laying each item out on the bed from left to right, in the correct order, it enabled him to overcome that particular little obstacle - as long as he remembered to start at the _bottom_ end of the bed not the top! (That day had been interesting!)

Having pulled off his school polo shirt, shorts and sweater and dropped them on the floor, all he needed to do was pull on his white leotard and black dancing trunks, which were a bit like underpants but meant to go _over_ the leotard not under - like Superman. His school socks – white, for the summer – were the same as his dance socks and his dancing pumps were in a bag, hanging on a hook in the front hall. So, he was ready to go!

Freddie scampered downstairs, holding the banister rail – as Mummy always insisted, so he wouldn't fall - and burst into the kitchen.

'I'm weady!' he shouted, gleefully.

Daddy, who was taking him to his dancing lesson today for the first time, was sitting at the kitchen table talking to Marie. He turned his head – oh, so slowly, it seemed to Freddie – and looked quizzically at his youngest son.

'Oh, were we going somewhere?' Sherlock asked. 'I was just about to have a cup of tea.'

'Oh, Daddy, you habn't forgotten hab you?' Freddie wailed, his expression changing to one of utter despair.

'Of course not!' Sherlock exclaimed with a wicked grin, opening his arms to hug his almost distraught child. 'Sorry, Freddie. Daddy is being very naughty. I've booked a cab. It'll be here any minute.'

Looking down, Sherlock noted that his son had put his dance trunks on back to front but he could rectify that in the cab, en route, rather than here in the kitchen in front of everybody. It would be their little secret.

OoOoo

The dance school occupied most of the ground floor of a disused Social Services building, which had been divided up into various units and let out to local artists as studio space. Sherlock was grateful that everything was on one level and that there was a wheelchair ramp up to the front door, making access easier for him and his crutches. Once inside the building, it wasn't hard to find the dancing school – one just had to follow the sound of piano music and a woman's voice calling,

'One! And two! And three! And four!'

Freddie skipped on ahead and held open a door bearing the word 'Reception' so his daddy could pass through.

Sherlock was instantly plunged into a strange Parallel Universe which had suffered some sort of catastrophic explosion in a blancmange factory. The walls and doors were painted the most lurid shade of pink. The carpet was a less alarming, darker shade of the same colour and the Reception Desk was also doused in a bright rose tint. Sherlock blinked, myopically, wishing he had not removed his sunglasses on entering the building. He wondered whether anyone would notice if he put them back on but decided, on reflection, that they probably would and refrained from doing so, as Mind Palace Molly nodded her head in approval.

Looking around instead, he observed a steady flow of children passing through another door, in the corner of the room, which he deduced led to the Changing Room; and that every child - and there were many, ranging from some a little older than Violet to others in their mid-teens – was dressed from head to toe in the same shocking pink as the paint on the walls. The image this conjured in Sherlock's mind's eye was of a flock of flamingos that had mistakenly migrated to East London.

His gaze settled on Freddie, in his easy-on-the-eye monochrome attire, sticking out like a sore thumb but blissfully unaware of that fact. Freddie was standing by the reception desk, looking expectantly at his father so Sherlock assumed he was required to go and join him. He limped over and gave Freddie a quizzical look.

'You hab to tell Miss Margo I is here,' Freddie advised him, in a conspiratorial stage-whisper.

Sherlock looked across at a female figure perched on a high stool behind the desk. She was old – Mrs Hudson's vintage and then some, he surmised – small and round-shouldered, and she was peering most intently at some kind of ledger on the desk in front of her. Towering above the diminutive woman, Sherlock could see that the open page featured a list of names down one side, a row of dates along the top and a grid of boxes, some of which contained black ticks and others red crosses. It was clearly an attendance register.

Sherlock waited politely for the lady to look up and acknowledge him but when she didn't, he gave an impatient cough. There was still no reaction so he drew a breath to say,

 _'Excuse me...'_

However, he didn't get to speak because the lady's left arm shot out, presenting the flat of her hand to him in a gesture which called, unequivocally, for silence. Sherlock was sufficiently surprised to comply, even though all his brain cells conspired to instantly compose a cutting rebuke. There was something buried in the depths of his Mind Palace that was telling him he couldn't talk like that to an old lady, however rude she might be. The 'something' sounded like his mother.

Even as that voice of caution was beginning to lose its conviction, the woman lowered her hand and deigned to look up, fixing him with a stern stare.

'Yes?' she snapped.

Sherlock frowned back at her and said,

'Yes what?'

'Yes. What!' she replied.

Sherlock, certain that it should be fairly obvious what he was there for, stubbornly refused to submit to her power play and just stared back.

'What. Do. You. Want?' the woman enunciated, resigned to having to deal with idiots like him all day, every day, but not at all happy about it.

Sherlock paused momentarily then inclined his head to indicate Freddie, standing patiently beside him, smiling cheerfully.

'Oh, Freddie, it's you!' the woman declared, her facial expression switching to one of benign maternalism. 'How lovely to see you! And who is this?' she asked, resuming her scornful demeanour and directing it at Sherlock.

'Dis id my daddy,' Freddie advised her. 'He had tome wid me today.'

'Oh! So, you're the famous amateur detective!' exclaimed the dowager, causing Sherlock to bristle with indignation at the offensive (and wholly inaccurate) term 'amateur'. 'Well, why didn't you say so, silly man, instead of wasting my time?' she tutted, shaking her head tetchily then running a finger down the list of names and across to the current date, and placing a firm black tick in the square to mark Freddie 'Present'.

Sherlock could not remember when he had last seen such an antiquated system in use and was tempted to ask why but, again, the voice of caution spoke up and he thought better of it. In the meantime, Miss Margo had raised her head again and was frowning at him. He quirked a questioning eyebrow and she sighed.

'Go and sit down,' she said, waving imperiously at the single row of chairs that lined the perimeter of the Reception Area which, apparently, doubled as a waiting room. 'Freddie's lesson will begin soon.'

Freddie, having completed the ritual of 'signing in', trotted off to join a bunch of little girls, about his age, who were sitting in the middle of the floor - clashing horribly with the cerise carpet - and was soon engaged in an animated conversation with them.

Sherlock limped away from the Reception Desk, feeling that he had come off rather the worst in that encounter. Judging from the expressions of the several adults – all women – already seated around the edge of the room, his experience was a familiar one and the outcome predictable. He headed for a section of empty chairs in a quiet corner, well away from the other grown-ups, and eased himself down onto the one on the end. His injured ankle was throbbing painfully and needed to be elevated in order to relieve some of the pressure so he turned sideways and stretched out his leg across two other seats, sighing with relief and settling in for the long haul, carefully avoiding eye contact with everyone.

Abruptly, a door to the right of the Reception Desk opened and a gaggle of girls poured through, chattering excitedly and glowing from the vigorous exercise of the class they had just completed. Behind them came a young lady who, it struck Sherlock, was the absolute epitome of an archetypal ballet dancer – petite, graceful and willowy. He watched, mesmerised, as she spoke to various parents, presumably giving feedback on their child's progress. Her body was extremely animated, her movements smooth and fluid, her hands fluttering like small birds and her head tilting from side to side as she spoke, as though she were still dancing.

Having dispatched the last parent and child, the young woman turned to take in the whole room and, giving two sharp claps, called out,

'Cygnets!' in a high-pitched voice that perfectly matched her nymph-like appearance.

All the children in Freddie's little cadre, and several others besides, jumped to their feet and scurried across to gather around her. She smiled sweetly at them then turned and led them through to the dance studio. As the door closed behind them, Sherlock took out his phone and began flicking through his emails whilst surreptitiously peering at the other adults, deducing their life stories.

The other adults clearly knew one another solely though their mutual connection to the ballet school, as evidenced by the topics of their conversations. And they all had a tale to tell of triumph snatched from the jaws of disaster. Little Melanie, for example, had announced on the day of her Grade Three exam that she had a hole in one of her ballet shoes! Melanie's mummy had been forced to rush her off to the dance-wear shop and purchase a brand-new pair of shoes and then rush home to sew in the elastics. And then Little Melanie had had to walk around the house in the shoes for a whole hour, to 'wear them in' before her exam!

Such drama, Sherlock thought. How did they ever survive?

As they talked, nearly all the women's hands were occupied sewing various items of clothing, some of which were extremely elaborate and colourful. It soon became clear that these were in fact 'costumes' required for a fast-approaching gala that the school was putting on. It occurred to Sherlock that Freddie had not mentioned any such gala and he felt a shiver of apprehension. Had he and Molly failed to get the memo? Were they remiss in not providing Freddie with a costume? The thought conjured an image of Freddie turning up at the gala venue, full of excitement and anticipation, only to be crushed when it transpired that he had _no costume to wear!_

Stunned to distraction by this sudden realisation, Sherlock was completely oblivious to the fact that one of the women had risen and walked over to him until she placed a hand on his shoulder and said,

'Mr Holmes, are you alright?'

He struggled out of his stupor and looked at her, confusion evident in his facial expression.

'S-sorry, what?' he stammered.

'Are you alright?' the woman repeated, full of concern.

'Yes, yes, I…' Sherlock blustered, squaring his shoulders in an effort to appear nonchalant.

'Would you like a glass of water?' the woman asked, solicitously.

'No! No, thank you,' he replied, forcing a smile of reassurance. 'No, I was just…'

'Just…?' she prompted.

Sherlock gave himself a mental shake to clear his thoughts and said,

'This 'gala' _thing_ … are all the children in it?'

'Oh, yes,' the lady replied. 'It's the end-of-year school performance, before the summer break, and Miss Simone is adamant that all the children get to participate, even the little tots.'

'Oh! So that means…' Sherlock's heart was sinking fast but he spotted a possible lifeline. 'Er, when is it?' he enquired, tentatively, hoping against hope that she didn't say ' _tomorrow_ ' _._

'In two weeks' time,' she replied, nodding for additional emphasis.

Sherlock's limbic system was suddenly flooded with a high-octane cocktail of endorphins and his face lit up with relief.

'Oh, thank goodness!' he exclaimed. 'So, we still have time to make something for Freddie!'

'Oh yes, of course, dear!' replied one of the other woman – and Sherlock realised, with a sinking feeling, that he was the sole focus of attention for the entire room and had been for several minutes, apparently.

'Hasn't Miss Simone mentioned it to you?' asked another member of the 'sewing circle'.

'Er, no, not to me…' Sherlock mumbled. 'But I don't usually bring Freddie for his lessons. It's usually our nanny and she hasn't said anything about it...' His voice trailed off towards the end of the sentence as he realised how disloyal this sounded, blaming Marie for the supposed over-sight. 'Though she may have mentioned it to my wife,' he added, by way of redemption.

'Well, don't you worry about it,' the first lady said, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm. 'Have a word with Miss Simone at the end of the lesson; she'll tell you what Freddie needs.'

'Right!' she exclaimed, looking around brightly, confirming to everyone present that a crisis had been averted and all was well with the world. 'Who would like a cup of tea?'

Several hands were raised, including that of Miss Margo who had observed the whole exchange but refrained from contributing.

'Would you like a cup of tea, dear?' the lady asked Sherlock.

'Yes, thank you,' he replied. 'Milk, two sugars,' he added, feeling as though he had just undergone some sort of initiation process but passed with flying colours.

ooOoo


	9. Grounded - Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

Over the next hour - facilitated by that very British social lubricator, tea – Sherlock gathered a great deal of valuable data on the dance school and its inner workings, which he saved in a temporary file for review at a later date.

He learned that the school was founded and owned by Miss Naomi, the mother of Miss Simone, and that it was her voice he had heard counting the beats when he first entered the building. She tended to teach the more senior pupils and give private lessons to the more gifted individuals - those who were intent on making dance a career rather than hobby.

Miss Naomi had taught Miss Simone, who had shown great promise and been selected at the tender age of eleven to attend a prestigious full-time vocational ballet school.

From there, Miss Simone had progressed into a professional dance company and had, to all intents and purposes, a glittering career ahead of her. But this was cut short by the growth of a bone spur in her ankle joint which, despite two operations, kept recurring. So, it was with great sadness that Miss Simone had to abandon her ambitions as a professional dancer.

However, during her vocational school holidays, Miss Simone had always enjoyed teaching the children at her mother's dance school, especially the younger pupils, so it seemed only natural that she should follow in her mother's footsteps by making a career as a dance teacher. And one day, perhaps, she would take over the running of the school, entirely.

Sherlock listened intently to all this, making appropriate responses at the right moments, which encouraged his informants to keep informing.

Miss Margo - the dragon who guarded the portal of the Reception Desk – was, it transpired, Miss Naomi's spinster aunt. She had practically raised Miss Naomi in the absence of her parents, who lived and worked abroad. It was she who had encouraged and supported the young Miss Naomi to pursue a career in dance that had, sadly, been denied to Miss Margo herself (the details of 'why' were rather vague) and, when Miss Naomi set up the school, Miss Margo voluntarily took on the role of secretary–cum-receptionist and had been doing the job ever since.

Although she never lifted her eyes from the double entry book keeping that had replaced the school register as the focus of her attention, it was clear to Sherlock that Miss Margo was listening intently to every word of the conversation between him and the other parents. And from the subtle changes in the woman's body language, when it came to the bit about the role she had played in the dance school's history, it was obvious to him that Miss Margo was, in fact, Miss Naomi's birth mother.

The story of the natural parents living abroad had been concocted, no doubt, to avoid the scandal that an illegitimate birth would have caused in that unenlightened era. But it had enabled Miss Margo to bring up her own child and be an active part of her life and that of her granddaughter, Miss Simone.

In the light of his and Molly's experience – particularly where William was concerned – Sherlock felt a strange sort of affinity with the grumpy old lady hunched over the desk on the other side of the room. There but for fortune, he thought, and resolved to be more courteous toward Miss Margo in future.

Molly would be proud, he thought, of how empathetic he could be these days. He must remember to thank her for awakening and nurturing that part of his psyche.

'The misses were absolutely thrilled when Freddie joined the school, you know,' the informant to his right declared, breaking him out of his reverie.

'Really?' he replied. As a business, the school seemed to be thriving so why would the admission of one more pupil be so important, he wondered.

'Oh, yes, absolutely delighted,' the lady confirmed. 'You see, we don't have many boys.'

Sherlock gazed around at the plethora of pink hues that beset him on all sides.

'What a surprise,' he replied, laconically.

'Yes,' agreed his confidant. 'In fact, at the moment, we only have two other boys and they are in the Seniors so it makes it quite difficult to cast some shows. Quite often, the girls have to dance the male roles…and that's not very good for their physical development.'

'No?'

'No, not at all. All that lifting, you see. Makes them too muscly.'

'Of course,' Sherlock nodded sagely, as though he knew what she was talking about.

'So, the arrival of a new boy – your Freddie – well, you can imagine, I'm sure.'

He couldn't but he nodded anyway.

Their conversation was abruptly cut short at that point by the opening of the door to the studios and the emergence of the Cygnets, all hot and sweaty and grinning from ear to ear. They had clearly enjoyed their dance lesson very much – and Sherlock was surprised at how quickly the hour had passed, so engaged had he been in evidence-gathering.

Freddie came charging towards him and Sherlock held out his arms to catch him.

'Daddy! Daddy! Miss Simone wants to tort to you. She said to tell you not to doe until she's seen you,' Freddie exclaimed, breathless with excitement.

'Of course, Freddie, wouldn't dream of it,' Sherlock replied, reassuringly. 'How was your lesson? A lot of fun, by the looks of you,' he added, grinning fondly and reaching for the kit bag that contained Freddie's civvies - something clean and dry - which he needed to change into for the journey home. The older children were permitted access to the changing room, where there were shower facilities, but it appeared that this was not an option for the Cygnets so Sherlock helped Freddie peel off his damp dance trunks, leotard and socks, rubbed him down with a towel and assisted him on with his home shorts, t-shirt and play socks.

They were just about ready to leave when Miss Simone dispatched the last of the Freddie's group and came over to them.

'Oh, Mr Holmes,' the dance teacher said, in her light, bell-like voice, 'thank you so much for waiting.'

Sherlock, painfully aware that he was seated and she was not, but unable to get to his feet because of his injury, smiled apologetically and gestured towards the nearest empty chair, inviting her to be seated too. Once they were both on the same level, he gave her an encouraging smile,

'How may I be of service?'

'Well,' she began, crossing her feet at the ankles, smoothing out her dance skirt and folding her hands, neatly, in her lap. 'You may or may not be aware that the school is preparing for its summer gala and, although Freddie has only been attending classes for a few weeks, he shows a great deal of natural ability for dance and we really would like him to put him in the production.'

'I'm sure my wife and I would have no problem with that, provided Freddie is in favour of the idea.' Sherlock replied, inclining his head towards Freddie, whose delight at the prospect was pretty self-evident.

'Oh, yes Daddy, yes!' Freddie squealed. 'I would LUB to be in it!'

'Oh, excellent!' exclaimed Miss Simone. 'You cannot imagine how happy that makes me. You see, I have the perfect role for Freddie. It's a small part - so it wouldn't take too much time to learn it - but it would suit him down to the ground.'

'And does this role require a…costume?' Sherlock asked, mentally reviewing the sewing skills of all his known acquaintances and coming up empty.

'Yes but, as it happens, we have the perfect costume in our wardrobe department and I'm pretty sure it would fit Freddie, with maybe just a few small alterations, but my great aunt could probably take care of that.'

Sherlock looked towards Miss Margo, who, as expected, was ear-wigging the conversation. She grinned like a demonic angel and waved a dismissive hand. So, that was the costume sorted.

'It will necessitate Freddie taking a couple of private lessons, in order to learn his part, and attending the general rehearsals. I hope that's not a problem. I know what busy lives you and your wife lead.'

Sherlock looked at his gammy leg and shrugged.

'My schedule is fairly clear at the moment,' he replied.

ooOoo

Freddie could hardly wait to get home and tell the rest of the family his wonderful news.

'I'm doeing to be de yittle hooman child dat Obi-Wan divs to Titania for a pwesent,' Freddie declared, proudly.

'How wonderful!' Molly exclaimed, ruffling his hair, affectionately and smiling at the thought of a Star Wars/Shakespeare crossover. That was a show she would love to see! 'So, are they doing the whole of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'?' It did seem a rather ambitious undertaking for a little local dance school.

'No, just an excerpt,' Sherlock assured her. 'These Summer Galas usually comprise a number of excerpts from different productions, according to my informant. At Christmas-time, they put on a _pantomime_ – whatever that is,' he added, with a frown. The world of show business was a mystery to him but it was something he would need to get a handle on, if Freddie were to be so actively involved.

'Well, it's lovely to hear such good news,' Molly exclaimed, eliciting from Sherlock a quizzical look.

'Tell you later,' she added, taking Freddie's kit bag from her husband and heading for the Utility Room to deposit the contents in the laundry basket, leaving Sherlock to ponder what fresh disaster was about to disturb the peace and harmony of his little domestic idyll.

ooOoo

 **Sorry its such a short update but I wanted to get something out there before Christmas. Here's wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!**


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